


Breaking the Cycle

by XxXxDarkVampirexXxX



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-10
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-30 03:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8517544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxXxDarkVampirexXxX/pseuds/XxXxDarkVampirexXxX
Summary: Voldemort arrives at Number Four, and discovers Harry in the midst of a destructive act. He doesn't understand why it matters, but be chooses to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something I needed to get off my chest, so don't bother looking into the rhyme and reason of what happens.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its characters...

It was an average, cloudy day in July, and Lord Voldemort was in a very good mood, something that terrified his Death Eaters as much as if he were in a _bad_ mood. But he didn't care about that right now, too pleased with what had just been accomplished.

He finally knew where Harry Potter lived.

Voldemort wasted no time. He made sure he had at least two wands on him-just in case, gathered his most competent followers, and departed Riddle Manor, which he was using as his base of command.

Death had caught up with Potter at last...

The neighbourhood was a horrendous bore, but there was no time to look around just yet. Perhaps later, once the deed was done. Perhaps never, because he couldn't bring himself to particularly care.

The small group of dark robe clad figures slowly, but surely, made their way down Privet Drive in the extended shadows of dusk, a light breeze playing blowing around him, tousling their hair. The streets were barren. Cars stood gleaming in drives, and curtains were drawn before all windows, of every single house, with no exception.

Number Four was no different, and stood as uninspiring as the rest of the homes on the street. There was no nothing stopping the group from walking up the drive. There was no one there to stop them from opening the front door. There was no enemy preventing them from entering.

"Do as you wish with the boy's relatives," the Dark Lord ordered, "but leave Potter be. I will deal with him alone." This was his revenge, and he wanted no outside interference.

"Yes, my Lord," came the immediate chorus of dutiful responses.

They entered the house.

Ignoring his followers now, Voldemort did a sweep of the boring, yet immaculately clean ground floor, eventually pausing in front of the cupboard under the stairs he had bypassed earlier, dismissing it as storage. But now he looked at it closer. Why would a simple storage space have three locks on it? Curious, he opened it.

He spotted the trunk first. The large, bulky school trunk, akin to the one he had taken to Hogwarts himself many decades ago-a type that never 'went out of style' so to speak. He saw the broom next, _a Firebolt_ , he recalled the young Malfoy speaking of nonstop. Why it was in here, he didn't know. Why the trunk had more locks on it than the door it was behind, he didn't know. Why these were sitting upon a small cot, he _really_ didn't know.

He saw a small shelf in the back, lined with broken crayons of different colours, all neatly arranged in a row, and drawings which had obviously been created by a child's hand. Unless they were by an adult who drew like a child, that is.

Discomfort filled him at the sight-at the realization that it appeared as if, before the trunk and broom had been placed within it, someone had, at one point, _lived_ in here. _Lived_ in this tiny, filthy _cupboard_.

Voldemort pulled back, and all but glided up the stairs. He didn't have to spend long on the landing to know where to look next. Obviously looked doors had now become very suspicious in this house.

And if there was one noticeable thing up on this floor, it was the seven locks on the first door on the right. What was hidden behind this door? He wondered this, but still, his discomfort grew.

With a flick of his yew wand, the locks came undone, and the wooden door silently slid open. He stepped into the small room, and froze.

Lord Voldemort was horrified at the sight that greeted him.

Harry Potter, beaten, bruised, and naked, sat upon the floor, pretty emerald eyes flashing with self-loathing as he slowly, methodically, raptly sliced into his left forearm. Over and over he did it, each cut as straight as a ruler, blood beading to the surface.

But this was hardly the first time. The scars lining his arm proved that much. They were not deep, would not have bled much, would not have hindered him in his movements, but each one would have hurt, and each new one _was_ hurting.

Voldemort did not know what caused him to do it. Did not know what caused him to lower his wand and approach the sixteen year old. Did not know what caused him to kneel down before him, and close a large hand around the uninjured wrist, stopping the boy from making another wound to join the rest.

Shocked emerald eyes flew up to meet his crimson ones, a sharp gasp slipping past pink lips, the sound echoing through the bedroom. A broken bedroom for a broken boy.

Voldemort met the gaze calmly, though anger churned deep below the surface of his being. With his free hand, he pulled the little blade, no doubt taken from a razor, out of the grip of Harry's fingers, and let it fall to the ground soundlessly. "No."

Harry blinked, and then looked down at his bloodied forearm, tears pooling in his eyes and blurring his vision. What did it matter? It wasn't hurting anyone but him, and he deserved this anyway- _needed_ this.

"No," Voldemort repeated firmly. "You are hurting, so you hurt yourself in an attempt to lessen that hurt-that pain. It is a vicious, endless cycle that drags you in and holds you fast until you succumb to the desperate need of pain, of punishment."

Slow tears fell onto Harry's naked lap, drop after drop, though he made no attempt to pull away. It had been years now since his morbid curiosity had become a necessity for him to get by.

"No." Voldemort took his small, warm, trembling hand in his own large, cool, steady one, and raised the injured arm up. He didn't understand why this made him so angry. Didn't understand why it made him so upset. Didn't understand why he cared. But he did. That was it. He just...did.

"No more will you be subjected to abuse at the hands of those who should have cared for you." He would have needed to be blind to have not noticed. "No more will you have to live with the cruel and unfair pressures society has thrust upon you." He would have had to be living in a shack in the middle of the sea to have not realized. "No more will you have to fight in a war you have no desire to battle in." He was a fool to have not seen it before.

Slowly, Harry raised his head, hope shining in those precious, emerald jewels. "N-never?"

Voldemort gently pressed his lipless mouth to the bloodied wounds. "No, never," he spoke against the jagged skin, crimson irises on the tear stained face. He cupped a soft cheek in his hand, feeling heat countering his cold. "Come with me, Harry."

Harry gazed back at him searchingly. At length, he spoke, his voice barely audible. "Death?"

Voldemort leaned into him, his mouth stained red. "Life."

"...Life," Harry echoed. He had thought that what he already had was life, that there was nothing to miss if he really did accept death. Was life really better? Was life really worth it? Shakily, he raised a hand, and slowly ran his fingers down the Dark Lord's cheek, the skin as cool and soft as marble under his touch. There was no pain. Not for either of them. "Life," he repeated.

Voldemort did not flinch away from the curious, gentle caress. "A new life, a life where you can live as a child your age should-live on your own terms."

Harry's gaze met his, emerald into crimson. It was odd that he felt no fear. Perhaps he was being manipulated. Perhaps he needed to fight back or argue. Perhaps it didn't matter either way. "A new life..." he said finally, his voice a little stronger, yet filled with curiosity. "A life with you?"

"A life on my side," the Dark Lord replied without preamble. "A life in my manor, unless you wish to go elsewhere. A life _at_ my side, if you so desire."

"Do you?" Harry's eyes slid down to the lipless mouth stained with his own blood, then back up to those crimson slits. "Is that what you desire? To have me at your side?"

There was no hesitation. "Yes." And when exactly that had become a desire, he did not know. Did not care to know. It mattered not, anymore.

Harry smiled now, just slightly, but there was clear relief in his expression that crossed his face too. "Then I'll say yes as well." His smile faded somewhat. "I've thought of nothing but death over the past decade. You'll have to teach me what it means to live." Because he wanted to know. _Needed_ to know.

"I can teach you anything you could ever desire to know, Little Serpent."

Harry smiled again. "Of that, I have no doubt." No qualms either. He wanted this, and for once, he was going to be selfish about it. "So what will you teach me first, Voldemort?"

Crimson eyes flashed. "How to seal a deal with the Dark Lord." He only gave Harry the time to blink in confusion, before he was kissing him, dragging him close, bringing the lithe body onto his lap, and mapping him out, while those smaller hands fisted in his dark robes, soft moans and hisses escaping them both.

There were many things they were going to have to sort through first. Many things they were going to have to deal with, and get through before Harry's life could really start. But for right now, they would begin with this.

"A-ah! V-Voldemort!"

"That's right, Little Serpent. I'm here. Right here. No longer will you suffer alone."

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Comments? Kudos?


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